Follow the Cookie Crumbs
by laughinghyena2000
Summary: He could almost hear her voice, touch her hair. The braids. Smile baby, smile. Four years… Four years when it was supposed to be a lifetime. A side of House never seen. and i write better stories than i do summaries Tissue...complete. RR
1. The beginning

Follow the Cookie Crumbs 

**Note**: I've only seen up to the 5th episode… so it is very very very possible that there are mistakes about people's length of relationships… type… etc etc. And basically, it's a work of fiction based on a work of fiction. Meaning, factual errors are a must.

**Disclaimer**: Sesame Street, not mine. Beatles, they own Blackbird. And Madonna owns Papa Don't Preach. House is not mine. And so in conclusion, I own nothing but the plot.

**Summary**: . He could almost hear her voice, touch her hair. The braids. Smile baby, smile. Four years… Four years when it was supposed to be a lifetime. (Who in the world could she be?) Exploring a side of House no one's really seen.  Fluff. Tissue. COMPLETE! First FF Pwease review:-D

* * *

House did a double take. In general, double takes were rare for him since he always expected the unexpected. Especially in the clinic. Anything could happen in the clinic, from over anxious parents to a case of the Spanish Flu. Apparently, this, however, was an exception.

He turned to Wilson who was standing behind him, studying a patient file. Before House could nudge him to confirm his thoughts, Wilson called out to his next patient.

"Carrie Lee. Room 2"

House was right. He was right. What were the odds?

* * *

"Thanks for just leaving and letting me deal with Cuddy," Wilson said right before he placed himself into the chair opposite House. He waited for the dry remark he knew was coming. At least, the dry remark he thought he knew was coming.

"Greg?"

"House?"

"You didn't recognize her?" House finally spoke as he replaced the dog-eared photo he had been staring for the past 30 minutes. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was just one big coincidence. Maybe it was just that he had never stopped thinking about her.

"Her who?" Wilson could mentally innumerate the number of times he had seen House's current expression. Main reason being that those moments were scarce and long time in coming. House seldom, infrequently, uncommonly, showed sadness.

"Carrie." It came out guised in a sigh. He could almost hear her voice, touch her hair. The braids. Smile baby, smile. Four years. That was all. Four years when it was supposed to be a lifetime. "Carrie."

Wilson wanted to say, so what. Carrie Lee was just another patient at the clinic. Had a slight cold. Seemed nice enough. What about. But he stopped himself. She had seemed familiar. But just a little. Little enough for him to disregard the sense of familiarity. Carrie. Carrie. Her. But it couldn't be.

* * *

"No Wilson, I'd much rather have a puppy. Though Stacy giving birth to a puppy would just be wrong," House said, words slurred. How many drinks did he have? Whatever. Bachelor's party. Drinks on the house. Oh, was that General Hospital playing on TV in a bar? Miracles of all miracles.

"All I asked was if you wanted to have children. You know, some human beings actually answer questions in a normal way." Wilson smirked. Not even a bachelor party with semi nude women and an infinite flow of booze could make House less, well, House like. Sarcasm, snide remarks and all.

"What? What?" And that was it. Dr. Gregory House, bachelor for the next 10 hours, was out for the night.

* * *

They had been trying for two years. And after many home pregnancy kits and negative results, both Greg and Stacy agreed to be tested for infertility. Uncorrectable. Some options, but chances are low. Costly, time consuming. Emotional. Might want to consider a more different option.

They did. Tried, at least. Which usually led to strained conversations. Stacy felt guilty. House felt frustrated. She would push him away when he tried to touch her. I don't feel like it. He would suppress growls when the talk of adoption came up and she stubbornly refused to even consider it. But what if it happens? Maybe? The doctor didn't say impossible.

* * *

"Are you sure?" Wilson's eyes glanced over the picture again. There, staring up at him was one Greg House, younger, less wrinkles and actually clean-shaven. Young House was laughing at the camera pointing at it, trying to get the child in his arms to say 'cheese'. "But it couldn't be."

"I think I've already covered the implausibility factor."

"But, it couldn't be."

"Parrot?"

* * *

"Boy or girl. C'mon, you have to tell me."

"What does it matter to you, Wilson my friend. She's going to be much too young to marry you."

"Ah hah! Girl!"

The past few years had been hard, House thought as he swallowed a mouthful of beer. First, there was the period of guilt, marked with numerous arguments. It was only a miracle that all glass and porcelain ware they own survived the ordeal. Then, there was the long discussion about whether or not adoption was the choice. Could they love another's child, etc., etc. Stacy was stubborn. But he already knew that when he married her. In the end, her maternal instinct won over her fears.

Then finally, came the adoption process. International adoption, as they learned not only took an unwarranted amount of waiting time, it also had a dab of red tape added on just for kicks. Paper work. Paper work. Phone calls. Phone calls. Phone calls. Yelling. Human beings, especially bureaucrats, were innately stupid.

But it was all okay, because today, they got her picture. Her passport. They received the forms. They bought the plane tickets to China.

"You got a name yet?" Wilson asked, looking at the picture of the grinning three-month-old baby. She had little hair, with eyes that seemed to be stuck in a perpetual smile. Short, stubby arms, with molds of flesh. "Just the kid." House had said. Just the kid.

"Carolyn."

Wilson saw the corners of House's mouth form into a smile as he responded. A smile. A genuine, content smile. No trace of disdain. No smugness. A Kodak moment. Where was the camera when he needed it?

* * *

The house was in a constant state of disarray. During the BB period (before baby) the house was too big for two. Now it seemed that it was getting smaller and smaller everyday. Baby objects strewn all over, covering almost every inch of floor. Toys, pillows, teddy bears, and the occasional disappearing left shoe, if it cared to show up. Even when visitors decided to drop by, nothing changed. And today was no exception.

"You know your daddy is the smartest man in the world, right?" House said as he lightly bounced baby Carrie on his lap. The baby, on the other hand, was much too busy tugging at Wilson's hair to notice what he had said. "And when you grow up, you'll understand why I'm always right."

"Until she hits adolescence, of course," Uncle Wilson, or as House called him, Sugar Daddy (for his endless supply of teething toys), remarked. ("It's not for malicious intent," Wilson said, in defense of his constant gift giving.) "Then you'll just be the ATM."

* * *

Stacy inched closer towards the open door, trying hard to be as quiet as she could. She knew that Greg and James were inside. She knew that neither man had any idea how to fold a cloth diaper, much less put it on a moving baby. Whoever invented the video camera, must have done so just for blackmail moments like these.

"She's tiny, but that thing is huge." House.

"Smells." Wilson, soundly slightly muffled.

"Good observation, Sherlock. Anything else? Hows about a hand?"

"She's your kid."

"Good godfather. Amazing, your level of interest."

"What in the world are you doing! That's not how a diaper is supposed to look like."

"Oh. Right. Obviously I thought the diaper was supposed to resemble a squished banana. Where is the manual?"

"Diapers don't come with manuals. Oh come on. You have a doctorate in infectious disease. You are one of the smartest and most sought after doctor in the States. And you can't work a diaper."

"First, you don't _work_ a diaper. Second, what are you Mr. Oncologist Dr. James Wilson? Kindergarten teacher?"

"That looks almost like it. It'll hold until Stacy gets back."

"Now. To. Put. Hey, stop moving."

A giggle. A loud shout of pain. Another giggle.

"I stabbed my finger."

Stacy thought about the future. Of her daughter and husband. And as she heard the baby laugh, she knew the two against one odds were perfect.

* * *

It was a slow day for the team. No new case, which was not exactly a news flash. The previous patient had been sent home, slightly dented, but overall, in a much better condition than she'd be in. And now, they were just waiting for the next unfortunate soul to fall into their waiting arms.

For the time being, Foreman was reading the papers, while Chase had dozed off half an hour ago. Cameron, on the other hand, was busy studying the going-ons in Dr. House's office. Wilson had been in there for a very long time and it didn't seem as if they were doing much talking. Just a lot of staring and House's frowned eyebrows and incessant tapping of his cane.

* * *

House rolled over to his side, pressing his head deeper into the pillow. If he couldn't hear it, he didn't have to get it. Unfortunately, Stacy had the same idea. Geez, she was even snoring. What a show.

He tried ignoring it a little longer. Maybe, against the laws of parenting and nature, she would stop. Nope, no such luck. At least he knew if placed under water, the child could hold her breath. Forever. Pushing the covers aside, he stumbled for the door. Running into the bedside table, dresser, and something really sharp and painful, before reaching his intended destination. Note: Toys. Off. Ground.

"Hey, Carrie. Hey," he said softly. A calm whisper. A tone of voice never heard by any of his colleagues, not even Wilson. He planned to keep it that way. Wouldn't want them to think he was getting soft. "What's wrong?"

Which, if his brain wasn't so sleep deprived to notice, was a stupid question to ask a baby. Not only could she not talk, but also there were only three things that she would ever cry for. A cry for hunger. A cry for someone to pick her up. And finally, a cry during the middle of the night that meant nothing except to wake up her parents and test her lung capacity.

"Not milk?" he asked as she pushed the bottle away. And he was holding her, and she felt dry. Which meant, it was the last option. Lucky him. He should have snored louder.

He turned the radio on, hoping that since music could soothe the savage beast, it would calm the squirming, crying Carrie. _Blackbird singing in the dead of night Take these broken wings and learn to fly_. "Nope, not a Beatles fan. Something else." _Papa I know you're going to be upset/ 'Cause I was always your little girl/ But you should know by now/ I'm not a baby._

"Nope, that's way too early for you." The next channel promised classical music all day, everyday. As the first notes to Pachalbel's Canon floated through the radio's speaker, the baby's screams started to soften. Finally. Thank God. Babies could make the most stubborn atheist start looking for a higher power.

"Classical music? Not bad. Not bad."

* * *

They had both disappeared. House's disapearence was expected, anticipated almost. But Wilson, unbelievable "I'll go get him," he'd said. Right. House's personality was rubbing off on Wilson. Not good. There weren't enough shrinks in the world for her to healthily deal with two Gregory Houses.

* * *

Sunday. No work. No pesky underlings to deal with. No obtuse, paper pushing governmental babysitters with no medical knowledge trying to pretend they knew best. Sleep. Except there was that nagging something at the back of his mind. Stacy. Flight. Ah yes, Stacy was visiting the Wicked Witch of the West and had told House "my sick mother doesn't need to deal with your mouth. You can just stay at home." He replied that, lo and behold, there was justice in the world. He would just stay at home and…

"Crap!" It was half past 11. Carrie was a morning kid. A very early in the morning kid. Stacy had left around six to catch the earliest flight. Meaning, for the past, who knows how long, Carrie had been alone. And the house was quiet. Not a good sign.

By the time he had successfully put on his pants and what smelled like a clean t-shirt, he had managed to stumble through every single room in the house. No toddler.

Why did kids learn how to walk? And open doors. But, Carrie didn't know how to open doors. Childproof locks. Crap. Intruder alert. Intruder alert. Funny how voices from his most frequently played computer game was currently going off in his head. Shit.

It was then that he heard it. In the mist of his panic-stricken mind, with images of Stacy wielding a baseball bat flashing in front of his eyes, came forth the voice of babes from the backyard.

"Unkc Wewshen." The bastard. He could just kill him right now. Of course Wilson had a spare key.

"Stacy called. Just to be safe in case you slept through the alarm." He was smirking. The nerve of him.

* * *

She walked in on silence. Twilight zone, Cuddy thought. Or Invasion of the Body Snatchers. What were they looking at? Why in the world did House keep running his hand over his face. And Wilson, shell-shocked? What in the world was going on? She had a waiting room full of patients and two of her doctors might be going insane.

"It couldn't be."

"I think it could."

What in the world was going on?

* * *

"Hold it like… that!" House gently maneuvered Carrie's fingers around the plastic lacrosse stick. "Now, when I throw it to you, you catch. Got it?"

"Yes!" she giggled, bouncing on her feet.

"Here goes nothing." He tossed the ball. It flew. And… bounced harmlessly of her forehead. At which point she swung the plastic stick with the little motor control she had, resulting in yet another bump on her head.

"Not a lacrosse player. Yet."

* * *

The miracle of Sesame Street. All around the country, for half an hour, lucky parents were sitting down to catch their breath. Sunny Day/ Sweepin' the clouds away/ On my way to where the air is sweet/ Can you tell me how to get/ How to get to Sesame Street? 1! 1! 1! Hi Bert. Hi Ernie. Watcha got there Bert? Sing-a-long kids. Sing-a-long.

It was the best sedative around. And House could not help but be enticed as Carrie, running around as an airplane just minutes ago, settled down into the couch. She was now completely oblivious to the rest of the world. The only sound she made was that of her quiet breathing, and her occasional gasp of admiration for the characters.

"Cookie," she said as she looked up at him, holding out the piece of chocolate chip cookie she had undoubtedly stolen from the secret stash. Not so secret anymore. "Cookie," she repeated, with slightly more awe in her voice.

"Yeah, you got a cookie there. Big cookie." The thing about talking to toddlers is that once you start, your voice starts to change. No matter how gruff or deep your voice might have been, it always ends up sounding like a five-year-old's.

Apparently, Cookie Monster was a source of reverence for his three-year-old. "It's a big cookie. And, and, and I eat like him. Mouwngmounwhgmougngh."

"No more," and she lifted up her hands and shook them for confirmation.

* * *

"And so it's out," House thought.

"It couldn't be," Wilson thought.

"Good lord what have we here," Cuddy thought.

"Impossible. Must be one of his dumb tricks," Foreman thought.

"I must still be dreaming, " Chase thought.

"Woah," was the only thing that crossed Cameron's mind.

* * *

It was probably one of the most interestingly shaped cakes in his life. Not that he'd seen many cakes with a footmark in the middle of it. What might have been the number four once was now a blob of pink icing. "What happened?" Wilson asked, staring at the gaping hole in the middle of the chocolate cake.

"She wanted to try some," House stated. As if stepping into the cake was a regular method of tasting it.

Stacy had painstakingly baked and decorated the cake the night before. Releasing as loud sigh as soon as she was done. It was a proud moment for her. A homemade cake with homemade icing, and beautiful floral decorations on top. Impressive, she'd thought. Impressive up until the moment House had walked in with Carrie and placed her on the counter top. Up until House had whispered conspiratorially to Carrie, asking her to "go ahead, take a bite."

"Oh goody, picture time kiddo," House said as soon as he noticed Wilson trying to inconspicuously pull out his Nikon. "Look at the camera." He started pointing at Wilson, who was zooming in for the shot. "Look, hey. Cake isn't that interesting. Smile baby, smile."

Click.

"The phone's ringing, I'll get it!" Stacy said, moving towards the house.

* * *

They were gone now, Chase, Foreman, Cameron, Cuddy, and even Wilson. Cuddy had allowed him time off from clinic duty to think. "Are you going to call her?" Wilson had asked. He wanted to say yes. To say, of course, not that I've been waiting for this chance since, since that day. But phone calls were not always good.

* * *

When he thought about her birthday party, he think about all the what if situations. What if they knew what was going to happen and skipped town? Canada wasn't that bad. What if she hadn't picked up the phone? Maybe if she lied and said wrong number.

It was the lawyer from their adoption agency. Said they had to come over to his office as soon as possible. So sorry, he'd said.

We're sorry for the screw up. Usually we try to make sure things like these don't happen. It was forged, the signature, I mean. The aunt had stolen the baby. The real parents wanted her back. And legally, there was nothing they could do. The documents were forged.

Stacy stepped into her lawyer role as soon as they entered the office. Lawsuits. She's ours. Ours. We've had her for four years. If they really wanted their daughter, why had it taken four years to track us down? How could this happen?

House wasn't paying much attention to the exchange. He kept watching Carrie through the window. She'd fallen asleep in the middle of building a Lego castle. Cute. My baby.

* * *

Stacy didn't come with him to the airport. She couldn't. She was barely able to look at Carrie, barely able to touch her head one last time before saying a choked 'goodbye.' At least Wilson was with her.

"Where's we going?" she'd asked him in the car. "You'll see," he'd reply. He felt like a liar. He wanted to hold her close and tell her it's ok, that he'll see her tomorrow. He wanted to run his hand through the long, coal colored hair, and tell her that he loved her more than anything in the world. But he couldn't even bare to glance into her dark brown eyes, and all he could say was "you'll see."

They reached the airport sooner than expected, so they had time to walk around before the Chinese social worker showed up. He brought her to the toy store where she picked out a stuffed Cookie Monster. "Thank you, daddy," she said, laughing. "Thank you."

Don't thank me yet.

He sat her down on a bench and lifted the bag he'd brought onto his lap. Stacy and he had spent most of the night trying to figure out what they could put into the small bag that the social worker had allowed. Her favorite books, (Where The Wild Things Are, Stacy'd smiled through her tears. Oh and her Book of Baby Firsts. Maybe she'll want… she'll want it.) her favorite stuffed puppy, (Wilson's stupid toy, House said.) and the picture Wilson had taken at the birthday party.

He tried explaining to her. But when she heard the words 'go away' she stopped listening to him. "No, no, no, no, no, " she cried. And cried. "No!" He tried to hug her, but she struggled against him. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Then the social worker came, and it took all his will power to not run after them, snatch her away and make a beeline for the border.

"Please give it to her," he begged, pushing the tiny carry-on into the social worker's hand. He hated begging. Made him look weak. I am the smartest person in the world. "Please."

He watched them. Watched her scream and cry. Watched them until they entered the gate.

"I love you," he whispered.

* * *

He thought about calling Stacy first, discuss, mutually decide what to do. But she had moved on with most of her life. Moved on from him. What if she'd moved on from Carrie? He didn't want to know.

Taking a sip of whiskey from the glass, he tapped the first few notes to Pachalbel's Canon on his piano. The dorm phone number was etched into his memory. Freshman, Wilson had told him. College, she'd made it to college. He didn't know what else he'd expect of her. He knew she was growing up, getting taller, more mature, but in his mind, she was constantly four. Nice enough, that's what Wilson had said too. His baby. Eighteen, not really a baby anymore.

She wouldn't remember him. Fourteen years is a long time. Hell, he couldn't remember what he had for lunch yesterday, how was he supposed to expect a four-year-old to remember him for 14 years.

What was he supposed to expect when he called and she picked up? Of course, I remember you. The man who dumped me into a stranger's arms. Or, I don't know who you are. Which was worse?


	2. The end

"Hi! It's Carrie and I'm not in right now. (laugh) And no Josh, I'm not out baking cookies or stealing someone else's batch. Not always a Cookie Monster you know… (laugh) I'm sorry, this is a long message… Ah! I'm doing it again. I keep going on about nothing… and… oh, just leave a message after the beep. (Beep)"


End file.
